


All we leave behind and all that's left

by revolving_doors



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolving_doors/pseuds/revolving_doors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse is nigh. Arthur retreats to his secret underground bunker only to have Eames show up unannounced and uninvited. Enforced cohabitation ensues.<br/>aka The end of the world makes them do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All we leave behind and all that's left

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on a line from [All I Need](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBjcSQQus_Y/)[](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBjcSQQus_Y/) by Mat Kearney. Random spoilers for The Goonies, Alien, Bambi, The Lion King and Transformers:The Movie (the 80s cartoon, not the one with Shia LaBeouf) . And Inception, but that goes without saying. 
> 
> I'm a little obsessed with the apocalypse. Okay, a lot obsessed. This is my love letter to all the films and books I've devoured on the subject over the years. (Originally posted on LJ).  
> 

 

When Arthur thinks about it he remembers seeing something on his RSS feed, some third-string story from The Globe about strange meteor rocks striking in Colorado or Kansas. Yes, Arthur has The Globe and the National Enquirer on his news feed: when you make a living stealing information from other peoples’ dreams the idea that the President is an alien falls well within the realms of possibility.

Cobb has taken the kids to France, settling them in for a summer with their grandparents. He’s spent the last year at home being a parent and as much as Arthur’s heard a smile in his voice every time he calls he’s also noticed how talk of work has begun creeping into their conversations. When Dom mentioned he was thinking about letting Philippa and James spend some time with Miles Arthur took the initiative to narrow down all the jobs that could be fitted into the timeframe of a school vacation. Dom had needed no persuasion when Arthur emailed him the final list, calling up Arthur to talk game-plans and strategies with a level of enthusiasm Arthur hadn’t heard since before Mal died. They’ll be working back to back jobs until Labor Day and Arthur needs to have everything fully researched and ready to go when he meets Cobb in Vienna in a week.

When Arthur does research he gets a little, shall we say, focused. Forgets to eat, forgets to shower, forgets the outside world exists, that kind of focused. He only begins to notice that something is wrong when he settles down one morning with a cup of coffee and clicks on his Wikileaks bookmark to find the website has crashed. He moves onto the New York Times only to find the same thing. A third click on people.com brings up bizarre stories on how random Z-list celebrities intend to spend their last few hours on Earth. Arthur shrugs to himself and searches for the TV remote amongst the papers covering his coffee table. If he can’t get his usual fill of daily events he might as well indulge in a little televisual propaganda.

END OF THE WORLD screams the ticker tape running along the bottom of the screen. CHURCH LEADERS PRAY FOR JUDGEMENT DAY. MTV REALITY TV STARS HOLD VIGEL IN TIME SQUARE. There’s footage of what used to be Paris, razed to the ground, a hug crater where the cafés Arthur frequents used to be.

In ten minutes Arthur has his laptop carefully packed away, ten of his best suits removed from their usual spot in the closet and is headed towards the basement.

 

** T Minus Two Days. **

Arthur is busy eating the contents of his refrigerator, currently a strange combination of blue cheese and left-over takeout dumplings. He’s watching Bill Hemmer talk through a montage of the Greatest Moments in America’s History (TV’s capitalization, not Arthur’s) when a loud banging on the reinforced door grabs his attention.

Arthur barely has the third lock turned when Eames comes bounding in 

“Room for a little one?” Eames says. He looks disheveled, more than usual anyway, and there’s a touch of wildness to his eyes. “I plead parley, of course,” he says, patting Arthur’s arm affectionately and waltzing into the bunker. “A truce, Arthur? The apocalypse really isn’t the time for grudges amongst adversaries is it?”

Arthur straightens his shirt sleeve unimpressed. “Eames.”

“The world’s bloody ending, I was in the area, I contemplated who might have planned for this type of scenario and all signs pointed to Arthur.” He already has his feet on the coffee table and Arthur’s chopsticks in the dumplings. “To say it’s a little chaotic out there would be putting it mildly.”

“Perfect,” Arthur sighs. “The end is nigh. Of course it’s you that shows up at my door.”

“I did a little looting on the way over,” Eames grins around a mouthful of blue cheese. He gestures to the black duffel bags he discarded by the door. “DVDs, Cheetos, porn.  As much gin and tonic as is humanly possible to carry. Everything one needs for an apocalypse.”

“Well, if you’re that well prepared, I don’t see why require a spot in my bunker.” Arthur glares at Eames with open disgust at the prospect of sharing his bunker.

“Camaraderie my dear fellow," Eames beams annoyingly.

“This is not going to end well,” Arthur mutters to himself, shutting the door resignedly.

 

**T Minus One Day.**

Eames is eating popcorn, sprawled across the sofa as the President of the United States tells them they have all been outstanding citizens and members of the human race.

Eames’ disdain for American newscasters is unparalleled, a fact he’s made very clear in his running commentary of events unfolding on screen. Outwardly Arthur voices his annoyance at Eames’ unending diatribe, reminding Eames at regular intervals that no-one’s forcing him to watch. Inwardly he finds it all highly entertaining.

“I’m sure the Queen is doing a much better job,” Eames huffs to no-one in particular, while Arthur pins charts on _impact winter_ and timelines on the _projected time until a dust cloud settles_ to the board above his desk in the corner. “ _We are not amused_ ,” Eames imitates nasally. He turns his attention away from the TV screen and towards Arthur. “Don’t they have big fuck-off satellites and telescopes to warn us about things like this?”

Arthur straightens one of the graphs. “The whole world economy is imploding. Not the worst idea for high-ranking officials and Heads of State to profess ignorance to the whole situation, allow worldwide extirpation of the human race, build a few arks and pick and choose who gets to play in humanity 2.0.”

Eames pulls a face. “I think I prefer the whole Armageddon idea where no-one realized it was happening.”

“I’m sure the President is on the phone to Bruce Willis as we speak.”

“Surprisingly, your witty comebacks actually make me feel better about the imminent end of the world.”

If it wasn't already second nature for Arthur to retaliate, the fact that Eames has spread popcorn kernels all over the sofa provides reason enough for Arthur’s stabbing reply. “Surprisingly, you’re presence here doesn’t.”

Eames actually pouts. “You wound me, Arthur.” However, his sulking is short-Iived, hand held over his heart in mock-sincerity as he says, “I do apologize that my being here offends you so, however in this instance I choose self-preservation over your personal happiness and therefore you are stuck with me.”

Eames has always had the ability to rile Arthur up, something very few other people are capable of doing. Normally Arthur would recognize this and depending on his mood, give as good as he gets or take a step back from the whole thing. Today, Eames’ behavior just adds to Arthur’s general unrest about the whole situation.

“You want to know what offends me?” he asks, suddenly overcome with the need to vent his frustrations. “That I didn’t get the opportunity to extract this information. Someone knew. Someone must have known. We spend all this time passing secrets back and forth between companies. Cobol wants information from Saito about an _energy expansion plan_.” Arthur says it like it’s the most ludicrous thing in the world. “Saito wants us to incept Fischer so he’ll break up his daddy’s company. Yet nobody wants to steal information on top secret plans to LET THE WORLD END?”

Eames has Arthur’s hands in his before he has the chance to take out his anger on his laptop or any other object in his vicinity. “Just breathe, love,” he says quietly. “Just breathe.”

The last thing Arthur wants to do is breathe. He wants to punch something. Someone. He wants to pull the die out of his pocket and find out this is all a dream. He wants to be the calm and collected Arthur that apparently ceased to exist the moment the goddamn apocalypse reared its ugly head.

Finally he becomes aware of Eames standing in front of him, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Arthur’s clenched fists. “I’m fine,” he snaps, pulling his hands away and turning back to his noticeboard. There are times and places for having mental breakdowns and stuck in a bunker with Mr. Eames as the world’s about to end really isn’t one of them.

Eames, to his credit, returns to the sofa and begins munching noisily on popcorn. His silence lasts almost an hour, until Arthur admits defeat, too tired and frustrated to concentrate on his charts, and drops down onto the sofa next to him. It’s the closest to an apology for his outburst as he’s capable of giving.

Eames offers him the almost empty bowl of popcorn. He takes a handful, plucks at the kernels half-heartedly as chaotic scenes of people breaking into malls flickers across the screen.

He can feel Eames’ eyes on him when he finally breaks the silence. “Why are you so angry when you’re so prepared for all of this?” Eames asks, more gently than the usual tone he uses with Arthur.

“I’m prepared for many things,” Arthur replies flippantly.

“Of course you are,” Eames says fondly. “Arthur; point man extraordinaire.  Prepared for every possibility."

And it’s true; Arthur’s entire job description boils down to one simple motto made famous by the Boy Scouts: Be prepared. He is the man with the plan, the escape routes, the flowcharts detailing how they should deal with any given situation. He solves problems before they ever have a chance to happen, draws the lines and sets the boundaries so they don’t fuck up on jobs.

Arthur, well, if Arthur worked alone he knows there wouldn’t be any fuck ups on the job. But Arthur doesn’t work alone and he’s learnt from (bad) experience that while his plans may be solid, other people can still manage to screw them up. That was how the bunker had come about in the first place. It had started shape as a panic room of sorts, somewhere to go if a job went badly and people were on his tail. Most of the work that had gone into building it had been based on hypotheticals. Then it had just seemed logical to plan for all possible eventualities. But in all his hypothetical planning he’d assumed that they’d either be together or they’d have fair warning.

In that single detail Arthur fucked up. It’s his fuck up, his alone and nothing he does or says is going to change that. Really, Arthur is floundering because he is failing at the biggest job of his life.

He doesn't tell any of this to Eames though, talking won’t change anything and what Arthur needs to do is deal with the things he can change. So he picks up the remote.

“For the sake of both our sanities.”

He switches over to BBC World News.

Eames settles back on the sofa, content.  “Oh yes, the last great bastion of broadcasting. Much better. Thank you Arthur.”

 

**Day Zero.**

The TV stations sign off on a Tuesday in June. Cameras have been set to provide an automated live-feed of the asteroids hitting the Earth, the last great milestone in a world of viral news, live-blogging and instant media. They watch in silence as a bright light fills the screen before everything turns sharply to black.

Eames takes Arthur’s hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Arthur asks, flinching at the physical contact.

Eames looks at him solemnly. “Dear Arthur, it’s the end of the world.”

“We’re not going to die Mr. Eames. This bunker was made to withstand nuclear war. A few asteroids hitting the Earth isn’t going to wipe us out. Anyone topside yes. But not us. Not down here.”

Eames keeps his eyes on Arthur.  “That’s not really the point is it?”

“I think that’s entirely the point,” Arthur replies dismissively.

Still, it’s a while before he lets go of Eames’ hand.

 *

The first few nights Eames had fallen asleep on the sofa, TV left on whichever news channel he’d been watching last.

It’s only when the signal goes down that Arthur supposes Eames could do with a bed.

Reluctantly he shows Eames to the only bedroom.  He gestures to the dorm-style lay-out.  “Take whichever cot you want.”

Eames makes a show of inspecting the room even though Arthur's sure he's already acquainted himself with the amenities of the bunker.  
   
“One, two, three, four beds," he counts, raising his eyebrows and smirking.   “You dirty scoundrel Arthur! Do tell me who you were planning on seducing into your post-apocalyptic sex dungeon.”

“It’s not like that,” Arthur snaps.  For some unfathomable reason it's suddenly vitally important that Eames knows he didn't build the bunker just for himself.  “I planned so that Cobb and the children,” he begins clearing his voice around the lump that's appeared in his throat and forcing the words out. “Dom took them to visit their grandparents in France.”

The first thing Arthur had done in the bunker was try to contact Dom. He’d emailed, he'd messaged, he'd called all the numbers he had but the lines to France were either all busy or all dead.

Eames says nothing, simply nods quietly and takes himself over to the bunk furthest away from Arthur’s possessions.

*

Arthur lies in the dark, mentally dismantling and reassembling various artillery in an attempt to relax his mind into something resembling sleep.

He knows Eames is on the other side of the room, lying on a bunk identical to Arthurs'.  He crept in just over an hour ago, undressing in the dark and with only the faintest of creak of the mattress as he got into his bed.  

Arthur is almost certain he's asleep so it's a surprise when he starts talking.  His voice is barely a murmur but it still manages to cross the room. “I'd barely landed in the U.S when France got hit. Fought tooth and nail to get here.  Not that I thought you'd actually have a plan for surviving all of this, I just thought about where I wanted to be when the world ended and the way I saw it drinking a G and T with you while the sky burnt a thousand different shades of red didn’t seem like too shabby a way to go.

I’m sorry I’m not Cobb. I doubt I even make it onto your ‘if I had to spend the rest of eternity with only one other person’ list, but.... Well, on my side of things, I’m glad I’m here with you.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to deal with a sincere Eames. Eames is his sparring partner, his foil. He is not the person that makes late night declarations to Arthur about where he wanted to be when the world ended. And Arthur is definitely not the person to reciprocate such declarations. Arthur doesn’t talk about feelings. He deals in facts and figures.

“One year and eight months and twelve days,” Arthur says out into the darkness.

“What?” He hears Eames roll over, feels his eyes on him even if he can’t see them. Belatedly he realizes Eames probably wasn't even sure he was awake until he stupidly started speaking.

“Not eternity. There are enough supplies for two people for six hundred and seventeen days. If impact winter lasts longer than that we will have the choice of starving to death of venturing out in search of food.”

“Well, on that cheerful note, I bid you a good night.” The tone of his voice sounds anything but cheerful.

Arthur hears Eames shift on his cot, but he doesn’t say anything else. He finds himself concentrating on the other man’s breathing until he finally drifts off to sleep himself.

**  
**

** Day One. **

Arthur wakes in the dark, takes a moment to remember where he is. That’s not unusual for him; a life spent in hotel rooms means he often forgets which country he’s in let alone more specific details. He hears the quiet snuffles of Eames from the other side of the room and feels the dead weight of Eames’ words from the previous night in the pit of his stomach. It’s not Eames’ fault that the world ended and Arthur couldn't do a thing to stop it. The bunker was meant to be an emergency measure at best, something Arthur had but never needed to use.

He carries the guilt of it with him as he heads through the living quarters to the kitchenette, preps the stove and fills the kettle. By the time the coffee’s brewed Eames is leaning against the dividing wall, rubbing out the crick in his neck and claiming Arthur to be a king amongst men as he inhales the full-roasted scent.

Arthur asks for forgiveness in the only way he knows how, by pretending nothing was wrong in the first place. “Since you’re going to be living here, I guess I should show you where everything is.”

“The grand tour,” Eames beams, gratefully accepting the steaming cup Arthur offers him.

It’s an expansive bunker as bunkers go. The dorm-style bedroom, a living area with partitioned kitchen. Bathroom with a chemical toilet and a water-saving shower that feeds back into an elaborate water filtration system. With two large storerooms for food, bottled water for drinking and various other supplies, plus a separate room for the battery cells and generators, the total square footage is somewhere close to Arthur’s apartment upstairs.

In the power room Eames notices the pedal-powered generator in the corner. “You’re going to make your own electricity?”

Arthur nods. “One hour of cycling only generates enough energy for a single 100 watt light bulb for an hour, but it will reduce the dependency on fuel-powered generators.”

“Impressive.”  For the second time in as many days Eames sounds sincere.  It's not something Arthur thinks he'll ever get used to.

“Just the basic necessities,” he shrugs, turning to go back to the living area.

 

**Day Two.**

Arthur wakes to the clattering of pans and an array of very British expletives. He finds Eames in the kitchen looking back and forth between the frying pan in his hand and various empty hangers on the wall above the stove.

“Third on the left,” Arthur offers helpfully, trying hard to keep the smirk off his face.

“Thanks,” Eames says, returning the pan to its rightful home. “Bugger, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s just, well; this is really bloody happening isn’t it? I woke up and I thought I’d treat myself to a cup of coffee and a sneaky cigarette when I realized I couldn’t go outside because a giant sodding dust cloud has taken over the Earth.”

Arthur has rarely seen Eames so ruffled. It’s endearing. It also makes him feel a lot better about his uncharacteristic outbursts in recent days. “So you decided to take your frustrations out on my kitchenware?” he asks.

Eames holds up a griddle pan in a questioning manner. “Far right,” Arthur supplies.

“No. I inspected the ventilation shaft in the bathroom and established that my smoke probably wouldn’t circulate into the air system only to realize I forgot to pick up a new box of fags on my way over here. Only three more blissful nicotine experiences until I become the world’s most reluctant ex-smoker. _That_ was when I decided to take my frustrations out on the kitchenware.”

Arthur is quite proud of the fact he doesn’t head off into a self-righteous explanation of why Eames shouldn’t be smoking in the first place. Normally he’d take pleasure from Eames’ lack of pleasure but the world ending has apparently changed the rules. That, and Eames looks genuinely forlorn at the prospect of never smoking again.

Arthur may not have been able to save the people he cared about but he does have the means to alleviate Eames of some of his distress. “There’s a chest of Gurkha Black Dragon cigars in the second storeroom. I had stashed them away for future bartering opportunities but I guess you could smoke a few if you wanted.”

Eames eyes light up with what can only be described as the heady excitement of an addict. “Arthur, I could kiss you.”

He grabs Arthur and plants a kiss on the top of Arthur’s sleep messy hair.

Arthur jerks away in horror.  “Do that and I’ll cut off your balls.” He continues his threat, even as Eames races towards the storage area. “If you smoke in the living area I will cut off your balls _and make you eat them_.”

 

** Day Six. **

Arthur starts a routine of drinking his morning coffee while making a circuit of the shelter, checking the charge of batteries, the levels on the gas cylinders, making sure the water filtration system is running correctly. He finishes by marking off the day on the projected timeframe of the stages of impact winter he has pinned to the noticeboard and subtracting the previous day’s consumption from his inventory of rations.

Eames hasn’t shown any interest in the carefully placed ledger books and print-outs that cover Arthur’s desk. The first time Arthur notices Eames in that corner of the room it’s because Eames is noisily searching through one of the desk drawers for something to fix some pictures above his bunk with. What really catches Arthur’s attention is the glass of water Eames has balanced precariously in close proximity to Arthur’s laptop.

Arthur grabs for the glass, Eames continuing to rummage through the drawer obliviously. “Aha!” he grins, holding aloft a roll of scotch tape, much to Arthur’s chagrin.

Arthur is about to explain to Eames the importance of respecting one’s surroundings, when he notices Eames’ shift in attention from the adhesive tape to the radio transmitter at the other end of the desk.

“Does that work?” he asks, settling down in the desk chair and fiddling with nobs before Arthur has a chance to answer.

“No, I just thought it looked pretty,” he dead-pans, placing the glass of water down at a safe distance from his laptop and watching as Eames begins to tap out a message. “You know Morse code?”

Eames throws an unimpressed look at Arthur, as if Arthur should know better. “SAS.”

There’s a high probability that Arthur isn’t the only person alive on Earth with a radio transmitter and receiver, that’s the very reason he equipped the bunker with one after all. But he’s been reluctant to switch it on and search for signs of other life, reluctant because probability is not certainty and he’s not ready to face the idea that he and Eames may be the only ones left just yet.

Eames doesn't seem to share the sentiment. He spends the next hour calmly tapping out a message, waiting for a reply and then tapping out the message again when one doesn’t come.

Arthur leaves him to it, uses the relative peace and quiet to reacquaint himself with the various maintenance manuals for equipment in the bunker.

He only notices when the tapping finally stops.

Arthur looks over at Eames, who is staring at the receiver as if willing it to make a noise. “Who do you want to answer?”

“I don’t know,” Eames admits. “Someone. Anyone.” He shrugs and spins the desk chair so he’s facing Arthur. “Do you know of anyone else who might have made it through this?”

Arthur ponders, trying not to think of Cobb and the kids and himself not having the correct information. It’s his job to have all the relevant information and he failed where it counted most. He decides not to think about the people who most likely didn’t make it and concentrate on those he thinks stood a good chance. “Saito,” he offers finally.

“Oh yes, definitely Saito.  I'm sure he's currently whiling away the days in an underground shelter of palatial dimensions surrounded by go-go dancers and with Michelin star chefs on standby to whip up gourmet delights. Probably in Dubai. I bet he bought a whole underground city of bunkers when he heard about the asteroids.”

Arthur thinks about it some more. “Most of my associates disappeared from the network very quickly. I suspect they went to ground before the asteroids hit. What about you?”

“Last time we spoke Mother was still undecided as to whether to join the rest of the family in the peerage accommodations over in Buckinghamshire or save herself the insufferable experience of life underground with a group of people she could barely stand at the best of times. I fear she may have put herself at the mercy of, in her words, a few over-sized pieces of stardust."  Eames smiles fondly but his eyes don't quite connect with Arthur's.  "She said she’d leave a note either way.”

For the first time since he discovered the world was ending Arthur thinks of his family. They haven’t spoken in years, never one to see the point of calling someone up just to chat, always too busy to make an appearance at Thanksgiving or any other holiday. It’s been a long time since he’s thought of himself in anything other than a singular entity so he’s surprised at the unfamiliar pang of sadness he has at the thought of his father in a beaten old armchair drinking beer and shouting insults at some college football game on the TV, his mother yelling at him for cursing as she unpacks grocery bags in the kitchen. It’s not enough for him to wish they were here now but it’s unsettling to think they’re not out there somewhere any more.

 * 

That night they play poker and drink whiskey until Eames passes out on the sofa and Arthur stumbles into the bedroom, jacket pocket stuffed with scraps of paper he will have completely forgotten about by the next morning.

 

**Day Twelve.**

Eames has had a mischievous look on his face all day, humming quietly to himself while he works on something on his computer.

Arthur has spent the day on his laptop too, transcribing various important files onto pages of color-coded Moleskines.  While he's confident in their power supply he still wants to be prepared in the event that they lose all significant power sources and he can no longer access his hard-drive. He highly doubts Eames is doing the same thing.

Eames interrupts Arthur in the middle of a paragraph on Escher staircases. “You know what the most frustrating thing about the internet crashing so soon was?”

The internet had gone down a full day before the final asteroid impact.  Either it had crashed because too many people were trying to log on at the same time or governments had turned off the servers to stop mass on-line protests against people having to fend for themselves. Burma had been known to unplug the internet during times of civil unrest; Arthur’s sure his own government were more than capable of doing the same.

Arthur finds discussing the internet only brings out his frustration at not saving pages he’d bookmarked when he’d had the chance. “How do I know you’re not going to say the missed opportunity to hack into the NSA database?”

Although really, Arthur’s always been better at hacking minds than computer systems.

Eames shakes his head sadly. “I couldn’t check Kanye’s twitter. I'm sure his last words would have been glorious.”

And with those words, Eames hits enter on his computer with a flourish. The dulcet tones of Jamie Fox fill the living area, Kanye West joining in to proclaim that _He ain’t saying she’s a gold-digger._

Eames is grinning in that annoying way he has that says yes, he knows exactly how far under Arthur’s skin he’s getting and no, he has no intention of stopping any time soon. He’s also waving a small piece of paper at Arthur like it’s a white flag. No, like it’s incriminating evidence.

Arthur crosses the room in three strides.  He slams Eames’ laptop closed and snatches at the piece of paper.

“Now, now Arthur,” Eames says, still grinning that annoying grin. “I’m just claiming one of my prizes.”

“One of your –" Arthur begins, recognizing his own cursive scrawl and, _oh crap_ , he remembers now.

After firmly rebuffing Eames’ idea of strip poker they had agreed on a betting system that involved bunker currency, some more reluctantly than others.

Eames had looked positively unimpressed as Arthur laid out the stakes, scrawling things like _exemption from cleaning the bathroom_ on small squares of paper. “Your ability to inject boring practicality into activities is second to none.”

“Yes, because a game that involves you losing your pants is the very pinnacle of creativity,” Arthur had replied dryly.

Eames had gone in search of whiskey, leaving Arthur to finish their betting cards. Arthur had smirked to himself as he filled in the last two pieces of paper. If Eames wanted creative Arthur would give him creative.  

Eames' unashamed gloating as he won the first hand had quickly turned to disgust after he saw exactly what he'd won.  Apparently _Burn Eames' grotesque paisley shirt_ was not the kind of creative Eames had had in mind.

“I love this shirt,” he’d said, rubbing protectively at the material. “I would never dream of carrying out such an atrocious act. Having this card is the equivalent of me playing with diamonds while you play with beans.” Eames looked positively grumpy.

“Fine,” Arthur conceded.  Sure, he'd written that card purely to aggravate Eames but he hadn't meant for it to derail the game entirely.  He swirled the whiskey in his glass as he thought how make the stakes more even. “If I win the card I get to destroy your shirt and if you win you get to do the equivalent opposite,” he suggested finally.

“The equivalent opposite,” Eames repeated, trying on the words for size. He tilted his head to one side. “So I get to destroy one of your suits?”

“Not a whole suit!” Arthur objected. Apparently he’d started them down a very dangerous road.

Eames smiled a little too readily. “Yes, you’re right, we aren't all fortunate enough to possess a capsule wardrobe in the latest apocalyptic hues. Some of us have to make do with little more than the clothes on our backs when the world ended.” He leaned back against the sofa. “By my calculation that makes the equivalent of burning my shirt,” he made a show of counting in his head, “four of your suits.”

“No way in hell!”

Eames had laughed to himself devilishly, finally settling on something only marginally less horrifying: one week of Arthur wearing Eames’ delightful paisley shirt.

Now he thinks about it, Arthur can’t remember who ended up with that piece of paper at the end of the night. He does, however, recall that Eames’ equivalent opposite of one hour’s complete silence was one hour of Eames making as much noise as he chooses and that is the very card Eames has chosen to cash in now.

Not only is this one of the most annoying things Arthur can think of being subjected to - barring, of course, being stuck in a concrete bunker with Mr. Eames- there are logistical issues that need to be addressed.

“This is an unnecessary use of the power supply,” he points out.

“I promise to cycle a virtual Tour de France tomorrow to make up for it,” Eames says, reopening the laptop. He’s smiling too, the same contagious smile that plasters his face after they successfully complete a job. Arthur hasn’t seen Eames this happy since he first showed up at the bunker. It’s Arthur’s biggest secret that he adores that smile. He’s taken otherwise boring jobs purely to witness that very smile.

“Fine,” he concedes, shaking his head in a gesture more for show than real displeasure. “But if I have to put up with an hour of your questionable musical tastes I’m going to need to break into the alcohol supply.”

He returns with two room-temperature bottles of beer – no point in wasting power on keeping beverages cold – to find Eames attempting the running man in the center of the room, sofa and coffee table pushed against the far wall.

And in that way Eames seems to have, Arthur ends up doing something he had no intention of doing. Arthur dances. He dances until he feels sweat pooling at the base of his spine. He jumps up and down to the Beastie Boys, does the robot to Daft Punk, laughs at Eames’ pathetic attempts at grinding to some early nineties R. Kelly.

Somewhere during the Britpop portion of the proceedings – something about girls who do boys like they’re girls and who do girls like they’re boys - Arthur flops down on the sofa to take a rest.

Eames drops down next to him brandishing two new bottles of beer. “Not so bad is it?”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Let’s just say I hope the contents of your iTunes folder isn't the only music that survived the apocalypse.”

Eames leans his head back on the sofa looking over at Arthur. “Don’t worry,” he whispers conspiratorially. “I won’t destroy your illusion of a hostile exterior by pointing out just how much you’re enjoying yourself.”

There they are, thick as thieves, loose and carefree in a way Arthur rarely lets himself be. For a moment he even forgets about dust clouds and the three-foot thick concrete walls that are their only protection from the freezing temperatures outside.

And there Eames is, head tilted to one side, inches from Arthur’s, wrecking it all with his husky ill-thought words. “Really love, as much as I enjoy this back and forth, will-they-won’t-they unresolved sexual tension, I feel the situation warrants us skipping a few chapters to the part where we realize we are, in fact, made for each other.”

He can feel the motion of gravity pulling them together and suddenly it’s all completely wrong. “No.” Arthur replies sternly, backing away. “No.”

Eames tilts his head to the other side, words full of humor but confusion in his eyes. “Because I have foolishly mistaken our playful banter all these years for flirtation and not that you really wish to grind my bones to make bread every time we converse?”

“No.” He really doesn’t get it, doesn’t get it at all.

“Then why not, love?”

Arthur feels the heat simmering in his stomach, feels the frustration bubbling up in his chest. He gets to his feet and paces back and forth.  There’s no escape route for this, nowhere to run, a five-inch thick stainless steel door stopping him from getting out of here and keeping the words to himself. “Because?" he scowls. "Because this is not how we’re meant to get here. I liked the _chase_ , I wanted the _chase_. I don’t want it to be because we’re the last two people stuck on this stupid fucking rock!”

If this was a film this would be the point where the music stops and the camera only focuses on the two leads, rest of the world going hazy around them. But this isn’t a film and so Arthur ends up competing with Missy Eliot telling him to get his freak on.

Eames stares at him, wide-eyed and open mouthed. “Arthur, I –“

Arthur turns on his heel, slamming the bedroom door behind him. He leans against it for a long time, blood rushing in his ears as his heart tries to break out of his chest.

**  
**

**Day Thirteen.**    
  
The problem with living in a bunker, even one as expansive as Arthur’s, is that it’s impossible to put any significant physical distance between you and another person.   
  
Eames, ever true to his word, spends most of the day pedaling in the power room.  Although from the way his iPod stays firmly attached to his ears, Arthur’s not actually sure if he’s making more energy than he’s expending.   
  
Arthur, on his part, tries to continue transcribing files but he finds concentrating a chore.  The few pages he does manage end up littered with crossed through spelling mistakes, his cursive almost illegible.   
  
The BBC had, in an attempt to add some sophistication to the proceedings, aired a segment on their rolling news channel explaining the science behind the forecast asteroid impact, as if it were important that the general public understood the  _how_  and the  _why_  behind their imminent demise.  
  
They’d said it hadn't been possible to accurately predict the path of the asteroids until they were too close to the Earth to do anything about.   
  
He and Eames have been crossing each other’s orbits for a long time now. He’s always felt there to be a certain level of inevitability to it all, an unspoken understanding between them that all their sniping and one-upmanship was building up to something. An endpoint on the horizon they’ve been dancing towards since the first time they met.   
  
For the first time Arthur really thinks about it, sees all the moments he’s classed as stepping stones and place-holders in their relationship as the  _almosts_  and  _not quites_  they really were. He imagines all the different ways things could have played out if the world hadn’t ended, ponders how long they would have waited, wonders if something would have knocked one of them off course or if they were simply destined to circle around each other, always that little bit too far out of reach.   
  
He thinks about where he’d be if Eames hadn’t shown up on his doorstep two days before the asteroids hit the Earth. Arthur likes his solitude, he likes his peace and quiet, but it’s always been a choice on his part, not an enforced sentence of solitary living. He realizes just how glad he is that he’s not alone and more importantly how glad he is that it’s Eames that is here with him.  
  
He also remembers how much bullshit the media were spouting in those last days and returns to his original conclusion that the asteroids' trajectory had been known long before it was officially announced to the general public.  Maybe they hadn’t known the exact day or the exact time, but they’d known, they’d always known. Some things are certain, even if you don’t realize them that at first. Inevitable.  
  
By the time Arthur has destroyed two perfectly good Moleskines and wasted the ink of three perfectly good pens he comes to a decision. Eames has moved from the power room to the bathroom, which he calculates gives him just enough time to put his plan into action.  
  
Arthur puts a kettle of water on the stove and scours the bedroom for two scrunched up pieces of paper while he waits for it to boil.  
  
  
*  
  
  
When Eames opens the bathroom door clad only in a towel and with the faint whiff of cigar smoke it’s to find Arthur sitting cross-legged at the coffee-table wearing Eames’ paisley shirt.  
  
“Have dinner with me,” Arthur says simply, hoping that Eames will understand his gesture.   
  
Eames looks him up and down, obviously taking in the shirt and the two bowls of macaroni and cheese.  
  
He smiles slow and a little unsure. “Just let me find something to wear.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
“You hate that shirt,” Eames grins ten minutes later, settling down on the other side of the coffee table in a T-shirt and slacks. “I practically had to beg when you won that piece of paper to stop you from burning it there and then and give it the send-off it rightfully deserves.”  
  
“And next time I win the card, I promise to take a moment to remember all the times you’ve worn this atrocious thing before it goes up in flames,” Arthur retaliates playfully.   
  
As they dig into their macaroni and cheese Arthur catches glimpses of Eames watching him. It’s stupid really, they’ve eaten dinner together every night for the last two weeks, but this time there’s a tension underlying it all.   
  
Eames obviously feels it too because he pauses with a fork full of pasta halfway to his mouth. “It’s not because you might be the only other person left on Earth.”  
  
Most of Arthur wants to pretend he doesn’t understand what Eames is saying, wants to pretend they’re still playing unspoken games with each other’s feelings. But if he’d really wanted that he would have just waited out the storm of his outburst and let things return to their usual status-quo. Where it had all seemed so simple in his head now it’s terrifying, but he swallows down that terror by remembering how terrifying a world without Eames would have been.   
  
Still, while his heart now knows exactly what it wants, his head still feels the need to put a few obstacles in their path. “I was worried I’d have to explain to you why I wasn’t a good candidate in your quest to repopulate the planet.”  
  
Eames quirks an eyebrow. “Oh yes, speaking of the planet, I bagsy Europe.”  
  
“Bagsy?”  
  
“You Americans and you’re pathetic understanding of the English language,” Eames admonishes. “Make a claim for.  _Call dibs_.”   
  
“You’re calling dibs on Europe?”  
  
“In the event that we turn out to be the last two people on Earth, yes, I claim Europe. And the Commonwealth, but since I’m now next in line to the throne that goes without saying.”  
  
Arthur snorts at the idea of Eames as King of England. “And if I should object?”  
  
Eames' mouth curls up at the corners.  “Thumb-war?” he suggests.  
  
“Seems fair,” Arthur laughs.  
  
Arthur puts their plates on the floor safe out of harm’s way. He offers his hand to Eames.  
  
Eames shakes the grin from his face in an instant.  He replaces it withs the same focused look he has when he’s holding a loaded weapon. “One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war.”  
  
They twist and turn their hands, Eames’s thumb brushing over Arthur’s, Arthur catching at Eames’ thumbnail.   
  
Finally Eames presses down on Arthur’s thumb. . “One! Two! Three!” He counts out triumphantly  
  
Arthur’s only reaction is to lean across and plant a kiss on Eames’ victorious lips.  
  
  
*  
  
  
There’s a certain amount of push and pull until eventually Arthur maneuvers Eames around the coffee table and both of them up onto the sofa. Arthur drags Eames on top of him, elbowing at cushions to make them more comfortable. After that their initial smacking of teeth and biting at lips turns into a more exploratory affair, Arthur spreading his legs just enough for Eames to settle down into the space between them, licking his way into Arthur’s mouth, Arthur grabbing at handfuls of Eames’ T-shirt.   
  
Arthur is pressing kisses along Eames' jawline when Eames buries his head in Arthur’s neck, his weight sinking onto Arthur and a quiet sigh escaping his lips. “Oh Arthur, you had to choose the day when I’ve cycled a hundred and fifteen miles. Of course you did.”  
  
It’s been a long day and truthfully, Arthur is exhausted too. And thoroughly content in the way that can only be brought about by the presence of another person on top of you. He’s well aware that there are four perfectly suitable beds just a short walking distance from the sofa, that the remains of their dinner are busy congealing under the coffee table, that he hasn’t brushed his teeth and that there’s a high level of probability he’s going to wake up in a few hours with the mother of all stiff necks. And yet none of it makes him want to move from exactly where he is now, tangled up in a mess of limbs with Eames.  
  
He brushes a kiss against Eames’ temple. “We can sleep,” he smiles, “just sleep.”   
  
“And tomorrow we will have earth shattering sex.” Eames nuzzles at Arthur's collarbone, his words thick with sleep. “No pun intended.”  
  
“Repeatedly,” Arthur agrees, pressing a kiss to Eames’ forehead. “Goodnight Mr. Eames.”  
  
“Goodnight Arthur.”  
  
  
 **Day Fourteen.**    
  
Arthur spreads Eames wide and fucks him like the world is ending. An overwhelming sense of urgency burns up inside him as he thrusts, fingers digging into Eames' thighs.  He comes with Eames’ name on his lips, Eames clenched around him with his own come spread across Arthur’s stomach.  
  
  
 **Day Eighteen.** **  
**  
Arthur has moved the coffee table and is doing sit-ups in the space in front of the sofa. He’s trying to concentrate on his breathing but he Eames keeps crossing his field of vision and it’s destroying his rhythm. When Eames makes his fifth trip from the bedroom to the storeroom Arthur pulls himself into a sitting position and voices his annoyance loudly. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Just going for a rummage in the supply closet,” Eames shouts in reply. He pokes his head around the door. “Are you particularly attached to any of those cots?”  
  
Arthur instantly loses all hope of finishing his work-out without further disturbance.  “Why?”  
  
Eames wanders past him with a selection of tools. “While not wishing to be overly presumptuous regarding the continuation of our current sleeping arrangement, those cots were not designed to accommodate two fully grown men and their associated sleeping habits.”  
  
Arthur pushes to his feet and follows him to the bedroom. “So you’re going to?”  
  
He finds Eames kneeling next to one of the cots with a wrench in his hand. “Make a few minor alterations.”  
  
Arthur knows that Eames is more than competent in the work he does. It’s part of what makes – made – him the best forger in the business. But all of Arthur’s judgments of Eames’ abilities are based on working extraction jobs and really, being a master in the dreamscape has little bearing on whether or not Eames can use hand-tools in the real world.   
  
Arthur has a feeling this is all going to end very badly.  Probably with blood involved.  He tries to put his reservations regarding Eames' handyman skills into terms Eames should be able to understand.  “If I end up sleeping on a mattress on the floor I can assure you that there will be no continuation of our current sleeping arrangement."  
  
Eames starts working on loosening one of the corner bolts.  “While I appreciate your confidence in my DIY skills, I’m sad to say a mattress on the floor seems infinitely preferable to another night clinging for dear life at the precipice of that cot.” He twists his head and grins mischievously. “I also intend for our new bed to have ample space to allow you to indulge in your unconscious desires to be a human starfish.”  
  
“I do not have unconscious desires to be a starfish!” Arthur protests, belatedly remembering waking up that morning with an arm and leg splayed across Eames.  
  
“I reiterate; these cots were not designed to accommodate two fully grown men and their associated sleeping habits.”  
  
Arthur leans against the doorframe and watches Eames dismantle the first cot, screws piled haphazardly on top of the bedside cabinet. Eames rolls back on his heels, contemplating the mass of wood and metal.   
  
“Do you even know what you’re trying to do?” Arthur asks, condescendingly.   
  
“Your supervision is unnecessary Arthur,” Eames states, throwing Arthur an unimpressed look. He stares harder when Arthur makes no attempt to leave.  "Unnecessary and unwanted."  
  
“Fine,” Arthur says finally, shaking his head. “I’m going to take a shower. And  _I_ reiterate; you break the bed, you sleep in it. Alone.” He leaves to go to the bathroom, hoping that Eames is as good with a wrench as he is wearing someone else’s face.   
  
  
*  
  
  
Arthur is very aware of the sound of banging as he showers and towels himself dry. When he goes to get some clothes from the bedroom he finds the door firmly closed and a Do Not Disturb! sign stuck to it. Eames has thought to hang one of Arthur's suits over the back of the desk chair so Arthur dresses and tries to distract himself by reading some of the thriller he started a few days ago.   
  
Halfway through a chapter a worryingly silence takes over the bunker. Arthur is about to ignore Eames’ scrawled sign and go investigate when the door opens and a face that looks far too proud of itself grins out at him.  
  
Eames drags Arthur into the bedroom.  He stands behind him and gives Arthur a moment to take in the scene.   
  
Two of the cots have been screwed together and while it’s not the king-size Arthur’s accustomed to it is a lot larger than the single bed they’ve been sharing for the past week.   
  
Eames leans forward and rests his head on Arthur's shoulder.  “Ta Dah!” he whispers huskily.  
  
Arthur is suitably impressed but he still manages to feign doubt.  He steps away from Eames' grasp and purses his lips. “You’re sure it will hold?” he asks.  
  
Eames puts on a stoney-faced expression that Arthur immediately reads as the disguised pouting it really is.  “Are you questioning my workmanship?”  
  
Arthur shrugs in a gesture that says yes, he really does question Eames’ workmanship. “Show me,” he says.  
  
Eames shakes his head disapprovingly but he still leaps onto the bed, arms and legs spread wide. “More than enough room for people with echinoderm tendencies,” he proclaims.  
  
Arthur decides to be the better man and ignore the starfish reference. That doesn't mean he's not going to keep messing with Eames.  “All that proves is that it’s strong enough to hold one person.”   
  
“Well then, I suppose that means you need to join me.” Eames stretches cat-like, folding his arms behind his head.  "For experimental purposes."  
  
His haughty demeanour doesn't fool Arthur for a second.  And really, it’s not as if Arthur needs to be coerced into getting into bed with Eames. These days Arthur finds it hard to remember why he ever thought the games they played were enough to satisfy his need for Eames. Maybe he was worried that it would burn out too soon, that Eames would get bored, that he would. But life with Eames is anything but boring. Deliciously aggravating, always unpredictable and remarkably charming.   
  
Never boring.   
  
Arthur nods. “For experimental purposes," he agrees, taking three steps forward and pressing his hands down on the edge of the bed. “Initial observations suggest solid construction.”  
  
The corners of Eames' mouth start to curl. “Go on.”  
  
Arthur crawls slowly up on top of Eames, making a show of every hand and foot fall. He balances over Eames, their mouths inches apart. “On further investigation it does seem to hold the weight of two people.”  
  
“That was the intention of the project.” Eames grins triumphantly, reaching up to cup Arthur’s hips.  
  
Arthur sinks down until he straddles Eames, rolling his hips once for good measure. “The true test lies in how much physical motion the joins can take.”  
  
“I have complete confidence in my work.” Eames bucks slightly, hands gripping more firmly at Arthur.  
  
“Well then, let’s put that confidence to the test.” Arthur leans down and presses their mouths together.  
  
It turns out Eames has built a very sturdy bed.   
  
  
  
 **Day Thirty-Six.**  
  
Arthur is used to Eames being up to something and during their time in the bunker he’s learnt that the best course of action is generally to leave Eames to his own devices unless it directly affects Arthur. Nine times out of ten telling Eames not to do something just incites him to do it louder, for longer and with more mess. Not such a bad thing in bed but usually not the best thing when Eames has decided to create art from all the used cans in the bunker. Arthur doesn’t always succeed in faking his indifference but he’s trying, and he does have to admit that Eames’ take on the Eiffel Tower was surprisingly avant-garde.  
  
So when Eames starts cycling for a couple of hours each morning, slow and methodical in the way Arthur had told him would charge the batteries better - a concept Eames usually ignores in favor of bouts of furious peddling - Arthur takes it as a small victory and decides not to comment.   
  
He doesn’t remark when Eames doesn’t complain about them having military issue MREs for lunch for the second day in a row, Arthur too caught up re-reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to take the time to prepare a proper meal.   
  
It’s only when Arthur checks his watch to discover Eames has spent the whole day in the storeroom that he becomes aware something is wrong. Truthfully he’s been relishing the peace and quiet but there is a suspicious lack of noise coming from the other room and a quiet Eames is usually an Eames up to no good. When Arthur goes to investigate he finds Eames sitting on one of the crates gazing at a stack of water cooler bottles in the corner.   
  
“If you’re trying to figure out how to turn water into wine, I’d like to point out that we have still have six cases of Romanée Conti,” he smiles, resting a hand on Eames’ shoulder.   
  
“What love?” Eames says, eyes not leaving the water bottles.  
  
“I said I’m sure we have enough liquor to satisfy your binge-drinking English ways.”   
  
“Indeed,” Eames replies. No retort, no gleeful comment about getting Arthur drunk and having his way with him, none of the sniping, sparring and comebacks Arthur expects, wants and cherishes.  
  
It’s not that they don’t have their off-days; it’s to be expected given the circumstances. Normally when Eames gets in one of those moods he holes himself up in the power room, pounding at the pedals for hours and hours before collapsing in a heap in Arthur’s lap. In his looting, Eames had acquired a number of DVDs - in his precise words the  _classics_  - and it’s these movies he asks for. Asks for, rather presumptuously deciding which film they’re going to watch, which is what normally happens in their discussions of how they’re going to fill their evenings. Usually Arthur would fight tooth and nail against Eames’ choice just because it was Eames’ choice but on Eames’ cycling days he just nods and sets up the portable DVD player. When Eames has that forlorn look on his face Arthur would do anything Eames asked to make it better.   
  
Sometimes Eames will be fast asleep barely moments into the opening credits, other times he’ll spout pieces of film trivia or recite bits of dialogue just before they take place. He’s proclaimed Bill and Ted’s Excellent adventure to have a great life philosophy  _be excellent to each and party on, it’s doesn’t get more profound than that Arthur_. He’s berated Arthur for not thinking to deck his bunker with cushions to hide behind while watching The Shining. And Arthur indulges him because with each word a little more of Eames re-emerges,  _his_ Eames, and with it, the tightness that’s been building in his chest loosens and he feels his own shoulders relax.  
  
Last time they’d watched Batman Returns and Eames gleefully compared and contrasted the bat-cave with Arthur’s lair. The time before that it had been Alien and Eames had gone into great detail about how when he was ten he sat in front of the TV every Saturday morning for a month eating Frosties and watching Sigourney Weaver battle aliens in space.  
  
“Shouldn’t you have been watching cartoons like normal children?” Arthur had asked as an alien burst through a man’s chest on screen. He rethought his question. “Actually, that explains a lot.”  
  
Eames rolled over in Arthur’s lap, taking his attention away from his beloved film and focusing it directly on Arthur. “Have you ever thought about how traumatic cartoons are Arthur?” he asked, pulling a face as if he’d expect Arthur to know better. “Really truly thought about the stories they tell? Simba’s dad dies. Bambi’s mother dies. And don’t even get me started on Optimus Prime dying in Transformers:The movie! Explain to me how any of that is  _less likely_  to scar a child than the shooting of a few anonymous henchmen?”  
  
“Worryingly, you make a good point," Arthur had conceded, dropping a kiss on the tip of Eames’ nose, safe in the knowledge that Eames was on his way back to his infuriating, wonderful self.  
  
In the storeroom Arthur nudges Eames until he turns on the crate and looks up at him. “Come on,” Arthur says, plastering a smile on his face. “I feel like watching The Goonies.”  
  
He waits patiently for inappropriate comments about One-Eyed Willy that never come, sneaks a look at Eames sitting rigid next to him when he doesn't join in with Sloth’s  _Hey you guys_! By the time the ship appears in the distance and Mikey finds a handful of jewels in his marble bag Eames still hasn’t said a single word. When the credits roll he stands up and goes to the bedroom without saying good night.  
  
Arthur sits on the sofa as the DVD resets itself to the main menu screen. This is not typical off-day behavior for Eames. This is different. This is Eames losing himself, little by little, piece by piece. And Arthur, not seeing the wider picture, has welcomed each little change, taking the peace and quiet at face value and not looking at its hidden meaning. Even when it was staring him right in the face.   
  
He turns off the DVD player, switches off the lights and makes his way to the bedroom. Eames is curled up tight on one side of the bed. His breathing is steady, body too rigid for him to be asleep. Arthur curls around his back, slides a hand to rest over Eames’ chest and concentrates on the thought that Eames will wake in the morning right as rain and complaining about Arthur’s sleep acrobatics. Because if he doesn’t, Arthur has no idea how to make this better.  
  
  
  
 **Day Thirty-Nine.**  
  
Arthur glances at Eames on the sofa. He’s been staring at the same point on the wall for the last half hour. Yesterday he wandered aimlessly in and out of the storerooms before returning to bed at 4pm, lying flat on his back with his gaze fixed on the ceiling until Arthur joined him hours later.  
  
Arthur spent yesterday wishing he had Google so he could research what’s going on with Eames. He wished he could call up Dom for advice or get Yusuf to make a magic pill. He’s tried to imagine what Ariadne would say about Eames’ situation since she was the one who broke Cobb out of his melancholy madness. When Mal died Arthur was stoic and practical. When Mal started appearing in their shared dreams Arthur asked about it but he never pushed and if Ariadne hadn’t been there Arthur doesn’t know what would have happened. It was more than just Ariadne really; it was the whole team that got Cobb back in one piece. But Arthur doesn’t have a team and for the first time in a long time he’s not sure he can do this by himself.  
  
Over his morning coffee Arthur reaches a decision. He leaves Eames on the sofa and goes to retrieve the PASIV device from the storeroom. He knows Eames has seen it, just as he knows Eames has seen everything else in the bunker, pulling out trunks and going through them when he’s bored, offering his opinion on everything Arthur has put in there. Neither of them has mentioned it. Arthur knows why he hasn’t, caught so precariously between the want of an escape and the fear of how far down the rabbit hole that want could lead.   
  
It’s a risk and he knows it. He could lose Eames to limbo forever. But more than a few times now he’s watched Eames absently tracing the outline of the reinforced steel door and last night he woke to an empty bed. Even after Eames had returned with a glass of water and told him to go back to sleep, Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before he woke to find Eames gone.   
  
It’s not a choice of whether or not to use the PASIV anymore. It’s the choice between chasing Eames through the dreamscape or out under the blackened sky. At least dreams are something Arthur knows, something he can work with, something more tangible to him than all the unknowns that lie outside the concrete bunker.   
  
He places the device on the coffee table as if he’s brokering a deal, puts on the tone of voice he used when he walked them through the basics of a job.   
  
“We don’t dream anymore Eames,” Arthur begins, “and sometimes we need to dream to be able to see outside the confines of the world we’re stuck in. You close your eyes and it’s just darkness, you open them and it’s the same concrete walls, day after day after day.”  
  
He doesn’t say that he doesn’t dream either, doesn’t say that what he sees when he opens his eyes is Eames and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.   
  
“I think it’s time for us to dream again.”  
  
Eames looks down at the open briefcase with none of the relish he usually has when presented with the opportunity to dream-share. His words come out cold and flat. “Whatever you think Arthur.”  
  
Arthur slides the IVs into both of their veins. He releases the somnacin and waits.   
  
  
*  
  
  
He opens his eyes to find himself in the center of a grassy field.   
  
Eames stands opposite him looking down at his hands. Arthur’s about to say something when he sees Eames’ fingers lengthen and change, ivory darkening to ebony. A sound Arthur hasn’t heard in what feels like a lifetime fills the air; the bellowing tones of Eames’ laughter. That laughter gets higher in pitch until it becomes a breathless giggle, matching the dark-haired woman Eames has turned into. The changes come fast and furious then, Eames switching skin over and over and over. Blond and tall, brunet and wiry, blue eyes and laughter-lines, short and charming, grey and distinguished, curvaceous blonde, athletic brunette.  
  
Arthur watches; the look of awe he usually hides when Eames forges spread openly across his face. “Are you done showing off?” he laughs.  
  
“I haven’t even gotten started,” a sultry red-head replies, skin already shimmering into a rich coffee brown.   
  
A bird circles overhead, catching Arthur’s eye. It’s nothing extraordinary, just a crow of some kind. What holds Arthur’s gaze is the infinite expanse of blue sky.   
  
“It really was that color blue, wasn’t it?” he says wistfully, head snapping down with the absence of a reply.   
  
Eames is halfway between Arthur and the horizon, running and running, further and further away until he’s barely a dot. Then he’s gone entirely.  
  
Arthur fills with panic. Feet stuck to the ground with the paralyzing realization that he’s alone. He hasn’t been alone in months and it’s suffocating. Terrifying. His worry has never been that Eames would escape; it’s that he would never think to take Arthur with him if he did.   
  
And then Eames is standing in front of him. Eames, his Eames, rolling his eyes and holding out his hand. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, breaking into a run and dragging Arthur with him.   
  
  
*  
  
  
The rule has always been that you don’t build from your memories so that you don’t lose your grip on reality. But really, who needs a loaded die when there’s the four walls of a concrete cell to assure you what’s real?  
  
They laugh as they run, whole new landscapes forming around them. Arthur drinks in every inch of it. And with every foot fall Eames is right there next to him. Eames in New York in springtime, Eames in Balinese temples and lush green forests. Eames in Sydney and Chicago, Manchester and Madrid. Eames with a bottle of scotch and two cigars in Las Vegas. Eames in hotel beds, in Arthur’s bed, in Eames’ own bed.  In the alley behind that great Thai place in London, at sunrise in the Mojave Desert surrounded by Joshua trees.   
  
  
*  
  
  
They stand on Tower Bridge looking over towards the skyscrapers of London’s Financial District. Arthur can see his breath when he breathes out.  He huddles closer to Eames as fireworks burst over the river.  
  
Eames nudges him gently. “I’m sorry I’ve been out of sorts lately.”  
  
“It’s understandable,” he replies. And it is really, it’s easy to see how lost someone can get without the feel of space and air. Arthur fully intends to bask in the feeling of the day they’ve had. The bunker and the empty look in Eames’ eyes seem like a whole lifetime ago.   
  
“I was never going to leave you,” Eames says, so simple and absolute that Arthur wants to believe him.  
  
But he doesn’t trust his voice, doesn’t know how to begin to explain that feeling back in the field when he realized that the fear of being alone and the fear of losing Eames was one and the same thing.   
  
“I know you weren’t,” he says instead, nonchalant, even though his heart is beating a symphony in his chest. He fixes his eyes on the river in front of them.  
  
“No you didn’t,” Eames says. He twists his body so that Arthur has to look at him. “I’d be dead without you Arthur. Literally and figuratively.”  
  
It’s entirely terrifying and comforting being the sole focus of Eames’ gaze. He wants to tell Eames that he is his everything, literally and figuratively, but it seems too overwhelming a concept to put into words. He hopes Eames understands it, even as he dismisses the idea away. “I always knew you were only with me for my bunker.”  
  
Eames looks him straight in the eye, bold and strong. “No, I’m with you because you  _thought_  to build a bunker.” He wraps his arms around Arthur, fireworks exploding somewhere in the distance. “Sometimes us forgers, well, we can get so caught up gazing at our own navels that we forget which way is north. And in those moments we need someone to nudge us in the right direction. You truly are a point man darling. You’re my point man.”  
  
Arthur leans in and kisses him, hopes it says all he can’t say with words. He lets their foreheads rest together, smiling slow and playful. “Is that your way of admitting that I was right? Can I have that in writing?”  
  
“You can have it in three-foot letters our bedroom wall if you so desire!” His eyes are dancing, fireworks reflecting in the glossy sheen that covers them. He kisses Arthur again. Firmly. Possessively. When they pull apart this time Eames raises an eyebrow. “And speaking of your batcave; aren’t there lots of important levers and switches you should be checking around about now?”  
  
Arthur can’t help but sink a little into Eames’ arms in relief. “You want to go back?”  
  
Eames nestles himself into Arthur’s shoulder for a moment. When he pulls back he is exactly the Eames Arthur knows from so many extraction jobs: charming and bolshie and absolutely beautiful. “If you’d just do me the honor of shooting me in the face. I do know how much you’ve missed it.”  
  
Arthur puts on his best serious work face. “It would be my pleasure Mr. Eames.”  
  
  
  
 **Day Forty-Two.**  
  
Eames doesn’t write that Arthur is right in three-foot letters across their bedroom wall but he does retrieve the arts supplies Arthur had bought with Philippa and James in mind. Eames plasters the wall opposite their bed with paper and spends a week painting an elaborate freeze. Skyscrapers and beaches, forests and temples, suburbs and deserts. All of it below a perfect blue sky.   
  
  
  
 **Day Sixty-One.**  
  
“Arthur!”  
  
Arthur is up in the main ventilation shaft on the pretense of changing filters. In fact, he’s checking particle concentrations to recalibrate his timescales. Ever since they used the PASIV Eames seems back to his usual aggravating self but Arthur knows it’s inevitable that the lure of the outside world will start creeping back under Eames’ skin at some point.  He’d prefer to not kick-start that process by letting him anywhere near hatches that lead to the outside world.  
  
“Arthur! Get your arse down here!”  
  
When Arthur gets down the ventilation shaft he finds Eames manically throwing items out of Arthur’s carefully organized desk drawers. “Tell me you have a radio for this thing,” he says, pulling his head out of a drawer long enough to tap out a message. H.O.L.D. Y.O.U.R. B.L.O.O.D.Y. H.O.R.S.E.S.  
  
Arthur pulls the radio handset from the multi-pocket organizer hanging on the wall. “The first contact you have with people in months and you curse at them in Morse code?” Arthur reprimands.  He's so entertained by the flustered man in front of him that he doesn't take in the gravity of the situation.  
  
“Yusuf is being impatient,” Eames replies grouchily, grabbing the handset and pushing the cable into a port on the front of the radio.  
  
“Yusuf?”  
  
And then he hears Yusuf talking and the whole situation finally registers. Yusuf is on the other end of the radio. Yusuf is alive.  _Yusuf is alive_.   
  
A voice speaks through the radio. “I was drinking tea with one of Saito’s communications operatives and he said he’d intercepted a message. British Military in style – SAS – he said they have a distinctive tone. I had hoped it would be you Mr. Eames. You still owe me for our last poker game.”  
  
“Yusuf, I have never been happier to be in someone’s debt,” Eames exclaims, hitting the desk in delight.  
  
“Mr. Eames.” A voice cuts in. A voice that sounds a lot like Saito. “And Arthur I presume.”  
  
“And Arthur indeed," Eames confirms.  "Both alive and kicking."  He raises his eyebrows at Arthur.   _Fucking Hell!_  
  
Arthur just shakes his head, belief and disbelief vying for top billing in his current emotional state.  In a long forgotten habit he slides his hand into his pocket, fingers searching for the totem he stopped carrying around months ago.  
  
“It is very pleasing to know you are alive," Saito declares in his usual formal tone.     
  
Saito, the most powerful businessman in Arthur's acquaintance.  His next statement shouldn't surprise Arthur at all.  It still manages to.    
  
"I will send my people for you right away.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
Eames talks to Yusuf some more and then one of Saito's operatives takes over the coms to ask for their current position.  Arthur takes the radio, rattling off co-ordinates and landmarks as if he's been rehearsing this moment ever since he first heard about the asteroids all that time ago.  
  
When he signs off he finds Eames leaning against the desk staring at the radio.  
  
“Bloody Yusuf,” he breathes in astonishment.  
  
“Bloody Saito,” Arthur matches, watching as a grin breaks slowly across Eames’ face.   
  
It’s glorious.   
  
He stands, right up into Eames’ space and kisses that smile. He pushes his tongue between Eames’ lips and invades his mouth with a mix of relief and hope and a strange sense of victory. Eames kisses him back with the same fervent necessity, cupping Arthur’s face in his hands when they break apart.   
  
“This calls for champagne,” he says in between snatched kisses.  
  
Arthur shakes his head.   
  
Eames mirrors Arthur's shake of the head, turning it into a question.  He scrunches his face in disgust when Arthur repeats the gesture. “Really Arthur? No champagne?”  
  
“A thoughtless oversight. I must apologize,” Arthur replies solemnly. In all his preparations he hadn’t thought there would be anything to celebrate.  
  
“Well then,” Eames says, hands moving swiftly to unbutton Arthur’s shirt. “We’ll just have to find another way to celebrate.”  
  
  
  
  
 **Day Sixty-Eight.**  
  
Yusuf says the team should be arriving today. Arthur has disconnected all the non-essential equipment in preparation and between them he and Eames have been repacking the storerooms. There’s still a lot of food. The day of the initial radio contact they’d binged on extravagant meals and so much wine that Eames had Arthur slow-dancing with him on the coffee table. Since then they’ve been back to eating their usual rations. Saito has assured them that his bunker has more than adequate supplies but even with daily conversations with Yusuf on the radio Arthur’s not sure it’s completely sunk in for either of them that they’re leaving.   
  
So much so that when he hears knocking Arthur automatically reaches for his non-existent weapon. He laughs in relief when he realises what the noise is but makes a mental note to have his gun close to hand before they open the door. Once a point man, always a point man.   
  
Eames is in the bathroom, the faint whiff of cigar smoke sneaking out from under the door. Arthur bangs on the door louder than he intended to. “Time to go Mr. Eames.”  
  
  
*  
  
  
“You ready?” Arthur asks. The two of them stand side by side in front of the door.   
    
“Ready,” Eames replies.  He's kitted out in one of the winter coats from the storeroom and Arthur can't help but think he looks like a cross between a snowman and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.   
  
“I’m going to miss this place,” Eames says as Arthur begins turning the various locks.  His voice sounds almost nostalgic.   
  
Arthur feels a strange sense of hesitation himself. He never thought he’d get used to his whole world fitting into an enclosed space smaller than his apartment.  And he hasn’t, not really, but he has gotten used to the routine of it all. Everything outside of these walls is unknown. Arthur can prepare for certain unknown quantities and variables but even he can’t prepare for an unknown  _everything_.   
  
Still, he raises an eyebrow and plays to their usual rapport. “Only you would miss enforced incarceration in a concrete bunker.”  
  
“Surprisingly, this is not the worst place I’ve been incarcerated,” Eames replies.  
  
“That’s not actually surprising.”  
  
Eames smirks and pulls Arthur in for a kiss. And really, when Arthur thinks about it, not everything on the other side of that door is unknown. The world might try to end, the scenery might change, they might just be swapping one bunker for another, but there will always be Eames. And for Eames there will always be Arthur.  
  
Arthur breaks away. “One minute,” he says, sprinting to the bedroom. “Do not open that door without me.”  
  
Eames’ art covers the wall opposite the bed. He’s been adding to it daily; a new skyscraper here, a face peeking out of a window there. Arthur remembers how he spent one evening telling Eames about a job he and Dom had carried out in Rome and how a few days later the Coliseum had appeared in between the Statue of Liberty and a London townhouse. It’s become so much a part of the bunker that it seems wrong to take it down. At the same time it represents everything that they are and Arthur suddenly can’t bear the thought of it fading in the darkness.  
  
“Arthur? What are you up to?” Eames calls from the other room.  
  
Arthur grabs one of the pieces of paper; a perfect square of azure blue sky. He folds the paper carefully and slides it into the pocket of his winter coat. A reminder of what they made here together. A starting block for them to build on wherever they end up.   
  
He sprints back to the living area.  
  
Eames is standing where Arthur left him but he’s looking back towards the bedroom and not at the door in front of him. Arthur joins him, game face in place, gun holstered underneath his jacket.   
  
“It’s the end of the world as we know it,” Eames says, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.  
  
Arthur entwines their fingers and squeezes Eames’ hand. “And I feel fine.”  
  
He pushes open the door.  
  
  
  
[fin]

 

**Author's Note:**

> Eames’ and Arthur’s last words by [R.E.M](http://youtu.be/Z0GFRcFm-aY/)[](http://youtu.be/Z0GFRcFm-aY/)  
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://backdatedloveletters.tumblr.com/)[](http://backdatedloveletters.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
